


Snow

by captainodonewithyou



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Snow, gilmore girls rip off tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainodonewithyou/pseuds/captainodonewithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy smells the first snow in the air and drags Lincoln along to experience it with her--even though it is the middle of the night. (Based on Lorelei Gilmore's snow sense)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow

The air is quiet and still and the layers of blankets piled over her provide a snug barrier between the toasty comfort she is settled in and the cooler air outside of it.  Her limbs are heavy and tired, and she thinks that even if she wanted to lift the sheets from her body they would prove to be too much for her sleepy muscles.  His breathing is deep and gentle beside her and everything is soft and warm and calm.

She shifts, careful not to let the heat escape the blankets as she scoots off the pillow and further under the covers, snuggling her head against his chest and letting her muscles relax, sinking deeper into the mattress and listening to the steady beat of his heart against the muffled silence of the base.

Her ears perk, suddenly–it is a particular brand of silence, heavier than the night itself.  She wiggles again, shifting her nose back from under the sheets to sniff at the cool air, finally peeling her eyes open and staring into the darkness.  It is a certain brand of cold, too–and an excited tempo begins to pull at her pulse.

She prods the arm Lincoln has wrapped tight around her middle, and does it again, and again, when he doesn’t stir.  She presses her head into the pillow beside his, nuzzling her forehead into his tousled hair above his ear.

“Wake up,” she whispers eagerly, switching over to giving his shoulder a little shake.  “Lin- _coln_ ,” she whines, “hurry hurry hurry, we’re going to miss it.”

He finally stirs, responding to her movements with a disgruntled groan and a shrug of the victimized shoulder, attempting to shake the offending hand.

“Lincoln,” she says, still right up by his ear, excited tone raising a little above a socially acceptable whisper.

“What?” he grumbles, a noise barely perceptible from the preceding groan.  He turns his ear away from her, into the pillow–blue blinking tiredly open beneath his lashes. “Are you alright?”

She snuggles nearer to him in a blatant beg for forgiveness for interrupting his sleep–that works despite it’s obvious ulterior motives, his eyes rolling as he mirrors her movements, pressing his forehead affectionately against hers.

“It’s gonna snow,” she tells him matter-of-factly once they settle, abandoning the pretense of a whisper, “and we need to go see it. Now. Before we miss it.”

He blinks.

“There is so much about that statement that concerns me that I don’t think I’m currently even capable of retaining it all,” he tells her slowly, voice hoarse with sleep.

She rolls her eyes, brushing a fleeting kiss to his lips before sitting up and letting the toasty warmth from the sheets melt into the air around them.  He grabs at her halfheartedly in protest as she does, and groans as the cold air takes the place of the warm.

“ _Why_?” He whines, rolling his head back upright to scowl at her.  His gaze meets hers and she sighs.

“ _Snow_ ,” she reiterates, shuffling closer to him on her knees to prod at his shoulder again, urging him up.  “C’mon.  _C’mon c’mon c’mon_.”  

She is starting to debate ways she might be able to manage carrying him out when he finally shifts slowly to a sitting position, glaring and grumbling and wrapping his arms exaggeratedly around himself as he does when she snatches the sheets further away from him.

“I watched the forecast, Daisy–they aren’t expecting snow for weeks.”

She is already slipping out of bed, feeling around the darkened room to puzzle together something that can pass as an outfit, pulling a shirt over her head as she moves towards the door.  When she reaches it she glances back at Lincoln–to find him still sitting groggily in bed. 

“ _Lincoln_ ,” she urges, “get up.”

He groans in protest again, but this time does as she says–bed creaking with almost as much indigence as his previous mumbling.

“I’ll meet you at the hangar,” she tells him, slipping out the door and ignoring something about forgetting her coat as she hurries down the hall.

To his credit, it only takes him about five minutes to arrive in the wide hangar, bundled in what looks like three layers of clothing and still scowling as he shoves what appears to be one of his flannels into her arms.  

“Put it on,” he says, hue of bitterness humorously still present in spite of his concerned tone.  “or you’ll get hypothermia waiting for your imaginary snow.”

She smirks at his worry for her in spite of herself, wrapping the flannel around her shoulders without a fight and breathing in the warm smell of _him_ that is just beginning to fade from her skin.

His expression softens just slightly as he reaches gently to fix the collar, folded under at her shoulder.

“Skeptic,” she winks, reaching for his hand and tugging him towards the garage as their fingers tangle together.

He is right–it is cold as hell, and the bitter air is clear.  But she can smell the heaviness and the sweetness, and when he mumbles something along the lines of “I told you so,” wrapping himself stubbornly in the warmth of his arms, she only grins.

“It’s coming,” she tells him, shuffling sideways until she is pressed up against his side and he untangles his arms, snaking the closest snug around her middle and tugging her closer–body heat radiating.

She stares up at the sky, blunt darkness softened into a serene cherry-grey that muffles the stars from view.  It is _definitely_ coming.

An icy breeze teases past, tangling through her hair–and on it, flutters the first sparkling white flake of snow.

And then the air is _full_ of it.

“See!” She says defiantly, delightedly staring up and around, watching the flakes twinkle and flutter through the sky. 

She nudges Lincoln gently with her arm and glances up at him, smiling brightly.  She can tell that he fights to retain his bitter edge, but his eyes lighten at her smile and he shakes his head, holding her tighter.  Snowflakes are catching in his eyelashes and they catch moonlight when he ducks to press a chilly kiss to her lips.

“Isn’t it magical?” She prods when he pulls back, clutching his shoulder and upper arm so his forehead stays hovering close to hers.

“It is cold,” he says, “and I am tired. And I love you but I do _not_ love snow. And I am going back inside now, ideally to hibernate for the next four months.  _And_ you get 5 minutes before I tell Coulson you have decided you would rather be an ice sculpture than an agent.”

He kisses her again when she glares at him, and she feels his teasing smile tugging against her lips.

When he lets her go she tugs his shirt tighter around her and stares at the sky a moment longer before following behind him.


End file.
